Head Wounds (23 page)

I’d left Amanda in the car. When I returned she was lying back in her seat with her eyes closed. It reminded me of how she looked on the way home from the incident with Robbie Milhouser. Either bitterly dejected or simply gathering strength for the next round. Composing herself. At rest, but on the verge.

When I told her we’d have to wait for Burton to call she asked me to take her home. She was quiet on the way back to North Sea. Just as well, since there were lots of questions floating randomly around the inside of the old Pontiac, most of which I wouldn’t be able to answer.

Then she surprised me by sliding over and wrapping two strong arms around my shoulders. She squeezed hard, her face pressed into the crook of my neck.

“You try to be a good person,” she said. “Most of the time.”

“Ah, come on.”

“You want to think that isn’t true. It makes it easier for you, which I suppose makes sense. It’s much harder to accept that even good people can do evil things.”

I waited until she made it all the way to her house and disappeared inside before letting Eddie take her place in the front seat of the car. I headed south again, through the Village and all the way to the parking lot at the end of Little Plains Road where you could pull up and look at the ocean. When I was a kid I lived with the delusion that looking out on that vast and irritable body of water would inspire answers to any question. What I know now is that the questions you’re likely to ask while looking at the ocean are impossible to answer. So instead, I took the experience for
what it was worth. A chance to allow the solemn sea to remind me of how little Nature cares that human beings want their existence to make sense.

A chance for a respite from the ceaseless and untenable struggle to prove Her wrong.

A
FTER THE
M
ONTAUK
H
IGHWAY
flows like an ancient tributary across the western border of Southampton Village, it disperses into a confusion of side streets, storefronts and neighborhoods, losing all distinction until it reaches the other side of town, where its identity is restored and volume engorged by merging with County Road 39, itself a descendant of Sunrise Highway, the other main artery connecting the South Fork with the rest of Long Island.

In an open area overlooking the confluence of traffic is a wooden building, not much more than a swayback row of storefronts welded into a single edifice, exhausted and forlorn.

This is where Jefferson Milhouser had his office, if that described the miserable little closet he’d stuffed with a heavy mahogany desk, a pair of file cabinets and a leather easy chair serving the dual purpose of guest seating and storage repository that would make Jackie Swaitkowski feel right at home.

My original plan for the day, delayed by meeting with Amanda and the DEC, was to pay Milhouser a visit. It was late morning when I dropped Amanda off at her house, so there was still plenty of time.

I thought I’d break the ice with a phone call, but his number was unlisted. Robbie’s number was still active, so I tried that and got to listen to a dead guy tell me he was unable to come to the phone, but if I wanted to leave a message, he’d call back as soon as he could. I fought the urge to see if he was as good as his word and called Frank Entwhistle instead.

Frank didn’t have Jeff Milhouser’s number either, but he knew where I could find him.

“I’d tell you to give him my regards, but I don’t think I have any,” he told me.

Then I placed another call, to Jackie Swaitkowski.

“Are you nuts?”

“People keep asserting that,” I told her.

“Sometimes I think you’re working for the prosecution.”

“Then come with me.”

“No.”

“I’m going anyway.”

“Not without me.”

“Great.”

“What are you trying to prove?” she asked.

“My innocence.”

“By talking to the victim’s father?”

“I just want to ask a couple of questions.”

“This ought to be a treat.”

I had her meet me at the corner coffee place in the Village so we could drive together over to Milhouser’s.

She was wearing her stable-girl outfit, complete with barn jacket and cowboy boots. It must have been the influence of the big horse show they had in Bridgehampton
every year, because that was the closest she’d ever been to an actual horse.

Her massive ball of strawberry-blonde hair struggled against a pair of black plastic barrettes. Her lips were the color of a freshly waxed fire engine

“Hey, Annie Oakley. Where’s Trigger?”

“You’re thinking of Roy Rogers.”

“Not in that lipstick.”

“Get your coffee and let’s go,” she said. “I want to get this over with.”

As we drove she asked me why I wanted to talk to Jeff Milhouser.

“Robbie’s crew told me they’re now working for the old man. I just want to know if he realizes who he’s dealing with.”

“That’s all?”

“Until I think of something else.”

When we got to Milhouser’s office I was glad I brought Jackie along. It wasn’t hard to imagine what kind of reception I was going to get. I just hadn’t let myself think about it until I saw his name on the sign: “Jefferson Milhouser, Construction Management, Floors Refinished and Installed, Real Estate, Fine Arts.”

I went ahead and knocked.

I heard a yell from inside telling me to come in. Jackie glowered at me as I opened the door.

“Hello Mr. Milhouser. I’m Sam Acquillo.”

“Sammy Acquillo,” said Milhouser, looking at me over the top of his
Newsday
.

You could probably trace the roots of my boxing career to elementary school when some jerk thought he could call me Sammy and get away with it. But I figured hearing it from an old man who thought I’d killed his son was worth a pass.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked me.

“That’s my question,” I heard Jackie murmur.

“This is Jackie Swaitkowski. She’s my attorney. We tried to call but the line was busy.”

“So that gave you the idea you could just drop by?”

“People call me Sam, Mr. Milhouser. And I didn’t do it.”

I hadn’t offered my hand and he hadn’t moved from his desk. He looked better than I thought he would. I guessed his age to be around seventy, but he was still slim and reasonably good looking, with a full head of wavy white hair and delicate, Anglo features that made him look a lot more like Burton’s father than Robbie’s.

“They call me Jeff. And why should I believe you?”

“Because I want to talk to you. And I can’t see you talking to somebody you think is capable of such a thing.”

“That was a poor choice of words. Capable is exactly what you are.”

His eyes were light blue, like the color of a robin’s egg. A random sprinkling of age spots spread across his pale skin.

“He just wants to talk with you,” said Jackie. “If you’re uncomfortable with that we’ll leave immediately.”

“That’s a switch. Hardly heard a word out of him when he was a kid. Surly little bastard, is how I remember it. Big chip on his shoulder.”

Jackie arched an eyebrow at me, but didn’t say what I knew she was about to say. Milhouser took the moment to surprise us both.

“You like iced tea?”

“Not especially,” I said.

“I love it,” said Jackie.

“I do, too. They got an excellent iced tea at the pizza place next door. I was about to go get some and sit out in the sun. It’s too nice to be cooped up in here.”

“Can we join you?” Jackie asked.

“It’s a free country.” He looked at me. “At least if you’re not about to rot in jail for the rest of your life.”

When he stood and grabbed a jacket I was surprised again, this time by his height, which was a lot less than I remembered.

I got a cup of coffee and followed Milhouser and Jackie with their iced teas around to the back of the building where there was a round plastic table with folding chairs and evidence of recent meals and cigarette breaks. Milhouser moved quickly, with a straight posture and his son’s bearing.

The coming spring was apparent in the cool sea breeze and light green fuzz on the boxwoods that lined the back of the building. Despite the breeze the sun was warm enough to heat up your face and throw a glare off the lawn furniture. Jackie and I put on our sunglasses. Milhouser just squinted.

“You’re probably wondering why I haven’t called the cops or thrown you out on your asses,” he said after we sat down.

He looked from me to Jackie and back again while he stirred a packet of artificial sweetener into his tea.

“A little,” I admitted

“You want to talk to me. Maybe I want to talk to you.”

“About what?” asked Jackie.

“I want to know why he did it.”

“I didn’t,” I told him. “No reason to.”

“Not according to Ross Semple.”

“You talked to Ross?” Jackie asked.

“Hell no. I read it in the paper. I’m no fan of Semple’s, but he can’t be wrong all the time.”

“He usually isn’t. He’s just wrong this time.”

“My wife’s dead, did you know that?”

“No.” said Jackie, quicker to catch the implication.

“Too bad. Might’ve made Acquillo here think twice before taking the only other thing that mattered to me.”

“I’ve got a daughter. I couldn’t imagine losing her,” I told him.

He watched me carefully as he took a sip of tea. In the bright sunlight he looked more his age, his pale eyes nearly bleached white, the age spots on his cheeks and forehead more noticeable, drawing attention to a pattern of broken capillaries at the tip of his nose.

“So this is why I can talk to you,” he said. “You can’t do me any more harm. Even if you came here to kill me.”

“Honestly, Mr. Milhouser,” said Jackie.

I just let the comment sit where it fell.

“So you’re taking over Robbie’s project,” I said.

“Projects. You wouldn’t believe all the things that kid had going on.”

“I was thinking about the place over on Bay Edge Drive,” I said.

“Beautiful house. Just beautiful. It’s Robbie’s monument.”

“I hear when it’s finished you’re moving the crew on to another job.”

He looked down into his iced tea and grinned.

“So that’s what this is all about. You want to steal Robbie’s crew. You got some kind of gall.”

Jackie rose to object, but I put up my hand to stop her.

“Why would I want to do that?”

“To give them to the Battiston woman. Who else?”

“Not a chance. I just want to know how they hooked up with Robbie.”

“I don’t know. They’re from Up Island. Seem like good men to me. I put that tall one Patrick in charge. A natural leader. Already been doing some floors for me. Loyal to my boy, that’s for sure. Honest, too. I checked all the books, nothing funny going on. All on the up and up.”

“Did you have a reason to doubt that?”

He grinned again and looked at Jackie.

“I always knew he was a smart one, even though he never said much of anything. The only kid at the station who could fix anything. It didn’t surprise me when the Fourniers snatched him away from me.”

What I remembered was going to work for Rudy and John Fournier because Milhouser didn’t like me hanging out in the repair shop. He wanted me manning the pumps and cleaning windshields.

“Do you remember a guy named Paul Hodges? He worked at the station a few years before me.”

Milhouser frowned as he tried to remember. Then it came to him.

“Now, that was a mechanic. Knew his boats. Took care of all the outboards. I used to send him to the marinas. Wasn’t our main trade, but with Hodges I thought it might turn into something. You could always charge an extra forty percent for marine work. More mystery in it, which equals more money.”

“Why’d he leave?”

“Typical Vietnam vet.” He twirled an index finger around his ear. “Prone to moods. Couldn’t control him.”

“Still can’t.”

“That’s how I thought of you. Like a moody jarhead without the medals. Hodges a friend of yours?”

“I guess so.”

“Figures.”

“I never gave you any trouble,” I said.

“I knew your old man. Apples don’t fall too far from the tree.”

Jackie suddenly had a coughing fit noisy enough to make me start thinking Heimlich.

“I’m okay,” she croaked out. “Sorry. I think I swallowed a lemon seed.”

“I’ve told them about that,” said Milhouser.

He sat quietly with me as we waited for Jackie to catch her breath. When she got there she took up another thread of the conversation.

“So why did you check the books?” Jackie asked.

“You’re back on that?” he asked.

“Just curious.”

He shook his head in disgust.

“Wouldn’t you? What kind of a businessman would I be if I didn’t check the books?”

I knew what kind of businessman he was, but he still had a point.

“So Robbie ran a tight ship.”

“The tightest. Could teach his old man a thing or two.”

“Your crew said he left plenty of work for them.”

“He left some. I had some. Now it’s all in the same pot. Though I don’t know what that means to you. What do you care?”

He was still squinting, either because of the sun or to improve his concentration, it was hard to tell.

“I’m just curious about those guys.”

“You still haven’t told me,” he said.

“What?”

“Why you killed him. God knows I can’t figure it out. They said you had a fight at a bar someplace. Everybody drunk. Making assholes of yourselves. No reason to kill a man.”

“That’s right. No reason. That’s what I’ve been saying.”

“That was your tool that had Robbie’s blood all over it. You can’t explain that away.”

“Those matters will be thoroughly dealt with when we get into a court of law,” said Jackie.

He looked at me this time.

“She’s a heck of a mouthpiece, I can see that,” he said. “Didn’t used to be so many lady lawyers. I like it.”

“You ought to see her break a horse,” I said.

“I’d like that.”

“So,” said Jackie, slapping the tops of her thighs. “I think we’ve covered everything we wanted to cover today. We should let you get back to your work.”